An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

Why do I write?  because the  harsh reality  can be so  overwhelming  in stories  we can find hope  in the struggle  between light and dark  good and evil  great heroes  and terrible villains  lovers and rivals we lost ourselves there and life doesn't seem  so bleak and doomed  as the naysayers believe

Forever  is a dreamer's word  the philosopher  never worries  about the rumble of his stomach  out of biting hunger or the dryness of a parched throat due to horrible thirst or the rainstorm soaking his paper or the frantic efforts of desperate survival but the common man  has no time  to muse about  the wonders the universe or the workings  of a so-called just society he worries about the NOW

I stand on the shore  my blood is from  a distant origin  far away from here  I hear the vibrations  of their strings  the breathy notes  of bamboo flutes  I feel the rumble of their drums like distant thunder that fills my ears. I capture the tones  of their words  in both hands  and learn them silently.  I bring their hopes  with me here  in this land  so very far away.

What I've learned  from cats:  do not settle  for anything less  rest and relaxation  keeps you nimble  falling leaves  outside the window  is all the entertainment  you really need  food always there water always filled the sound of treat bag is a rallying cry affection in small doses  when you want them  we're all from royalty  and should be respected

A midnight run  to buy some snacks  study group together  too much coffee  not enough sleep  final lab projects  fifteen page essays  back with all-nighters  in the computer center  with the printers hooked up the dot matrix chatter because you didn't have  a desktop of your own  Those ancient days  thirty years ago

Be gentle  a soft touch  can do so much  more than a harsh one.  But such is mistaken  not as strength  but as weakness  in a world of false power  They say we need  to toughen ourselves  to survive through life  no indulgences  So soft rain  on our cheek  feels like the lash  of pure scorn. The wind smashes through the rigid buildings of the mind while the plum blossoms bend and survive the hurricane.